Federal Express
by Swellison
Summary: After their escape from the Green River Detention Center, Dean turns to a special contact for help. Tag to Folsom Prison Blues.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story is a tag to Folsum Prison Blues in Supernatural's timeline, takes place after In the Dark in the NCIS universe. Story originally appeared in Rooftop Confessions #4, edited by GriffinSong Press

Federal Express

by Swellison

Dean Winchester followed his brother through the motel room door and closed it behind him. He shifted his hold on the weapons bag as Sam stopped short just inside the room, halting in front of the bed nearest the door. For a moment, Dean thought that Sam was going to throw his duffel on that queen-sized bed, claiming the wrong one. Sam's eyes flicked towards Dean's face, and then he stepped further into the room and dropped his duffel on the farther bed, his usual digs.

Dean dropped his own duffel on the closest bed, and bent over to shove the weapons bag underneath_._ Instead of the open access he was expecting, the duffel bumped against the hard wood platform that anchored the bed. Dean sighed. _That's the problem with better motels, their furniture's built too well, _he thought as he moved over to the lowboy along the interior wall opposite the beds. He opened the bottom right drawer and deposited the weapons bag. As he closed the drawer, he noted it slid smoothly shut, closing level with the rest of the drawers on the solid mahogany piece. Dean straightened, his gaze scanning the room from its cream-colored walls, to the dark bedroom suite furniture, desk and chairs. No sticky drawers, missing or mismatched furniture in this fine establishment. The room's theme appeared to be cozy and clean, and it didn't use vibrant colors and over-the-top accessories to carry it out.

"Why are we stopping here, Dean? Does Harpers Ferry have a hunt that I don't know about?" Sam still stood next to his bed, contemplating the colorful, but tasteful red, blue and gold geometric pattern on the bedspread.

Dean knew that Sam was worried, but his brother's tone came across as angry sarcasm. "No, no hunt here."

"Then why are we paying about double what we usually spend on a room that doesn't have a kitchenette, or even a refrigerator?"

Dean smiled. "Technically, we're not paying for the room, Ed Johnston is," he said mildly.

"Not funny, Dean."

"No, I guess not. Did you notice the other cars in the parking lot?"

"The lot's almost full; it's hard to miss them, so?"

"Notice the license plates?" At Sam's uncertain nod, he continued. "Everything from Florida to Wyoming. It's a tourist trap, Sam, they're used to out-of-state plates, and we'll blend right in. Plus we've got our new Ohio plates. We're a thousand miles from Little Rock, staying at a motel above our usual standards. No one would even think of looking for us here."

"Are you sure about that? Henriksen turned up in Little Rock a lot faster than you thought he would."

"Sam, I know how to do my job, despite what you might think." Dean watched as Sam's eyes widened at his words, and he knew that Sam also heard the echo from months ago, when they were chasing that zombie, shortly after Dad's death. _Damn, I didn't think being incarcerated threw me that much off my game. _Dean had adjusted to their situation in the Green River Detention Center fairly quickly, and discovered that he could not only survive, but actually thrive behind bars. The same couldn't be said for Sammy, who still had a hard time sleeping several days after their escape. Dean ran his hand down his jeans. "Look, we changed the plates on the car; we're holing up in an unexpected location, using a credit card with an ordinary, non-rock star name. We're staying at a higher-class motel than our usual accommodations. I've done everything I can to break our pattern. Henriksen isn't gonna find us here."

Sam stared at Dean and then sighed. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

"Hey, I'm the big brother, I'm always right." Dean sat down on the bed he'd claimed, bending to unlace his boots. He kicked his shoes off and stretched out, wriggling his socked toes. "And for doubting me, you're gonna go get dinner."

"What?"

"I've been driving all day, and I'm hungry."

"I'm hungry, too. Why don't we just order room service?"

"I don't want over-priced fancy food; I want some nice, juicy diner food."

"What about a pizza?" Sam offered in compromise.

"Diner food, nice juicy diner food," Dean reiterated.

"You mean greasy—nice greasy diner food."

Dean grew tired of looking so far up at Sam, and switched from reclining on the bed to sitting up on it. "And fudge—these kinds of tourist traps always have the best fudge. Get me some fudge."

Sam sighed. "You're incorrigible."

"Damn straight," Dean agreed. "Now, get going." He dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them towards Sam, who automatically caught them.

"All right, I'm going," Sam grumbled. He crossed the room to the door, opened it and slipped out.

"Don't forget the fudge!" Dean reminded him as the door closed solidly. Dean stared at the silent TV for several seconds, and then reached for the remote on the nightstand between the two beds. He scrolled through the current offerings, decided there was nothing on that he couldn't live without seeing and clicked off the set. Then he stared at the door for a good long minute before rising from the bed and retrieving the weapons bag from the lowboy. He unzipped the bag and dug out his throwaway pre-paidcell phone. Returning to the bed, he flipped it open. He tapped the back of the case a few times before punching in a number from memory.

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Leroy Jethro Gibbs finished smoothing the bow of the wooden boat he was currently constructing in his basement. The top frame was now completely assembled and the next step would be to attach the dozen or so pre-cut pieces that would make up the boat's roof. He eyed the stack of assorted wood pieces and wondered if he really wanted to tackle the exacting and time-consuming job of assembling themtonight. Each piece had to be painstakingly hammered to its proper place on the frame, and any necessary adjustments in width and length of the unique pieces had to be made, too. Working on his first boat had taught him that corrections and adjustments were the norm for self-measured wood pieces, not the exception.

Deciding that a beer wouldn't be amiss, Gibbs walked towards his mini-fridge and extracted a longneck. Before he could even pop the cap, his cell phone rang. Gibbs shot a mildly annoyed look at the phone, but walked over to the worktable and grabbed it. He placed his beer on the tabletop and glanced idly at the display, reading Unknown Caller as he snapped the phone open. "Hello."

"Is this Gibbs?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

A pause, then, "My dad says you're the only Fed he trusts. Says I can trust you, too."

Gibbs' eyebrows rose. "Your dad's right, son," he replied, soothingly, although he knew by the timber of the caller's voice that he was talking to a man, not a boy. "Who is he, by the way?"

Another pause. "You call him Buster."

_Buster?_ Gibbs mentally searched his friends and contacts, and then figuratively snapped his fingers as the connection was made. _John Winchester, the Ghostbuster._ His mind's eye produced the image of the grizzled, rugged face of a man about his age, with penetrating hazel eyes that had seen too much. Arrogantbastard, had been Gibbs' first impression, three and a half years ago. _Definitely a Marine._ "Good old Buster. How is he, by the way?"

"You know Dad, always flying under the radar." His caller cleared his throat. "He's keeping a low profile, these days."

"So, what can I do for you?" Gibbs asked, noting that his caller had refrained from giving him any real names.

"I need the case file on me and my brother, Sam." The voice was flat. "FBI Special Agent Victor Henriksen is the agent of record."

_Well. When the kid decided to drop a name, he picked a doozie._ "It'll take me a day or so to get that. Why don't you drop by my house Saturday morning? You know the address, right?"

"Yes, but that won't work. You can see the Capitol Building from your driveway, and that's too close for comfort. Pick another location."

For someone asking for help, the kid was on the demanding side, Gibbs mused. _Like father, like son._

"Tippy's Taco House, on the Lee Highway in Fairfax," Gibbs said, after a half-minute spent considering other options. "You'll love it--best Tex-Mex in the DC area. Meet me there at 11:15 Saturday morning. Place opens at 11, so it won't be packed, yet." A sudden thought struck him. "D'you know what I look like?"

His caller barked a laugh. "Oh, yeah, Dad's described you a time or two. You still tall and skinny with a grown-out military haircut? Don't worry, I'll find you. Tippy's Taco House, Fairfax, 11:15 Saturday. Got it." He echoed back the information, hesitated one last time. "Thanks, Gibbs."

The call disconnected and Gibbs snapped his cell closed, placing it back on the worktable and exchanging it for his still-unopened beer bottle. He popped the cap and walked over to the stairway, plunking down on the third step. Reflectively, he took a swig of beer.

He'd met John Winchester on his most unusual case to date, three and a half years ago. Gibbs had been trying to solve a multiple murder. Three people killed by a dead man; a soldier who'd recently returned from Iraq in a government-issued black coffin. He'd found that hard to swallow, yet he had two completely credible witnesses who swore that they'd seen Ensign Fred Oliver leaving the crime scenes. Stumped, Gibbs had sought a second opinion from Davidson, a colleague of his at NCIS who was also a former Marine. Davidson had let Gibbs talk, and then said he could arrange a meeting between Gibbs and a specialist, but Gibbs had to keep an open mind. Intrigued, Gibbs had agreed and Davidson set up a meet, in a slightly unsavory bar in Manassas, where the victims and the dead man had all lived.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2 First Encounter

Manassas, Virginia – October 2003

Gibbs showed up at Dominic's Bar early, settling into a table towards the back and watching the door. The bar was dimly lit, with a juke box playing country music at a tolerable decibel level. At seven sharp, a stranger approached his table.

"You Gibbs?" the tall, bearded man in a black leather jacket asked, but Gibbs had the feeling it really wasn't a question.

"You the specialist?" Gibbs asked back, annoyed that he had to glance upward to meet the man's hazel eyes. He kicked a chair away from the opposite side of the table. "Have a seat."

His visitor sat in the indicated chair. A waitress swooped down on them seconds later, taking their beer order and vanishing towards the bar. Gibbs and the other man silently took each other's measure as they waited for their order. After a few minutes, the waitress returned, plunking two mugs of draft beer on the table. The other man raised his glass and cocked an eyebrow at Gibbs. "Semper Fi."

Gibbs raised his glass in return, and then took a swig. He had no trouble believing this man had been a Marine.

"Davidson said you'd fill me in. So talk."

Gibbs frowned, used to being the onetoaskthe questions. "You have a name?"

Even the man's smile was hard. "Did Davidson give you a name?"

"Turner."

"I'm George Turner. Nice to meet you, Agent Gibbs."

"_Special_ Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs," Gibbs emphasized, "of NCIS."

"I stand corrected." Turner's mouth twitched. "Now, you were saying--?"

Well, he was the one asking for help, Gibbs reminded himself and proceeded to outline his case to Turner. Strangely, Turner didn't bat an eyelash when Gibbs explained that his prime suspect–Ensign Fred Oliver–was dead, killed in Iraq in mid-July, three months before the murders.

Instead, Turner focused on the victims. "The first victim was Oliver's wife?"

"Yes. Hannah Marie Oliver. They'd been married less than three years."

"It wasn't a good marriage, was it?"

"From all accounts, it started out good," Gibbs said."But it's hard on a woman to have her husband living on the other side of the world. She sent him a Dear John email in June_._"

"And he got himself killed in combat a month after that. Nice." Turner grunted. "Let me guess, second victim was a male, friend of the Olivers?"

"Ensign Todd Lunz, found in his living room, killed only hours after Hannah Oliver. How'd you know?"

"Anything in that email to suggest that Mrs. Oliver was having an affair?"

"No, she just wrote that she couldn't take it anymore. She was lonely, and scared, kept waiting for the phone to ring in the middle of the night, or a couple of Navy officers to show up on her doorstep. Said she was filing divorce papers, pronto."

"She was lonely," Turner mused. "I s'pose Oliver could've inferred that she did something about her loneliness… then died before he could confront her. That would do it."

"Do what?"

"Turn Oliver into a restless spirit."

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that," Gibbs muttered. "You want to know about the last vic?"

Turner took another swig of beer, and then placed his glass on the table. "Fire away."

"The third victim was a young man, 19 years old, Roger Franco. He was killed three days later, after I was assigned the case."

Turner frowned. "Did Franco have some connection to the previous murders?"

"Not really. Lived in the same neighborhood, that's all. He had a juvenile record—known high school bully, picked up twice for joyriding, suspected drug dealer."

"What ties him to the other victims, then?"

"Same type of crime scene. Franco was murdered in his living room, multiple stab wounds to the chest—and an eyewitness saw Oliver leaving the house, about 1 a.m."

Turner sighed. "That's not good."

"Why not? Because someone saw, er, him—?" Gibbs told himself he was not buying into this ridiculous dead man walking/restless spirit theory. Even more annoying, he couldn't get a read on Turner; he had absolutely no idea what the man was thinking. Usually, he could spot a lie a mile away. Turner had spouted some strange ideas, but Gibbs couldn't pin down anything he'd said as an out-and-out lie. He thoughtfully downed more beer.

"Oliver's spirit has—or thinks it has—specific, legitimate reasons to go after his wife and Lunz." Turner's voice was level, as if he discussed spirit's doings on a daily basis. "Rightly or wrongly, he suspected them of having an affair. It was personal. But with the attack on Franco, he's branched out, turned vigilante. Spirits see things in black and white; they have no use for the gray areas of people's lives. Under these criteria, pretty much everyone's guilty of something. One question: do you know where Ensign Oliver's buried?"

Gibbs was nothing if not thorough. With two extremely reliable witnesses ID'ing Oliver, he had confirmed that the ensign really was dead and buried. "Rosehill Cemetery, at the end of Foster Drive, in Manassas."

Turner finished his beer and set the empty glass mug on the tabletop. "Okay. I'll take care of it."

"What're you going to do?"

"You don't want to know," Turner said flatly.

"That's not an answer," Gibbs challenged.

"It's the truth." And damn it all, Gibbs' gut told him that Turner wasn't lying. "Look, I'll handle it."

"Bullshit_. _We'll handle it together. What's the next step?"

"I need to dig up a few things, do a little research. I'll call you tomorrow."

Gibbs reached into his pocket, extracting a business card. He flipped it over and wrote his cell phone number on the back, then handed the card to Turner. "See that you do."

Turner tucked the card into his jacket pocket."Yes, sir."

Gibbs squelched the automatic "Don't call me 'sir'" that usually came to his lips when he was 'sirred.' Something told him he'd need all the advantage he could get, dealing with this Turner character. "Call me," he reminded Turner as the other man rose from the table.

"I will. Thanks for the beer." And with that, Turner was gone.

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Gibbs shifted in his seat, running a hand through his gray hair and debating the wisdom of his spur-of-the-moment surveillance job. He had discreetly tailed Turner after he'd left the bar, his gut telling him that he had agreed to his plan of working together far too easily. Turner had pulled his truck into a drive-thru Burger King, and then driven to the lower-rung Ace Motel just off the highway in Manassas. Gibbs had used his binoculars, able to see enough through the flimsy curtains to watch Turner eat his meal and talk on his cell phone. It was now past midnight and Turner's light had been off for a good fifteen minutes.

Just as Gibbs was ready to call it quits, the door to Turner's room opened and Gibbs watched as the man exited his room, a travel bag over his shoulder. Turner strode right to his black truck, got in and started it, driving smoothly out of the motel parking lot.

Quietly, Gibbs started his car and cautiously tailed Turner's Ford, keeping a healthy distance behind Turner on the nearly traffic-free roads. After tailing Turner for about twenty minutes, they passed a school—Dean Elementary School, proclaimed the official placard, in six-inch letters—and shortly after that, a more refined sign appeared in the moonlit night: Rosehill Cemetery. Gibbs wasn't really surprised when Turner turned in at the cemetery's main entrance. He drove by the cemetery's driveway and executed a U-turn a few intersections later, carefully backtracking to Rosehill.

After Gibbs parked in the back of the cemetery's parking lot, he spotted the black truck tucked into the far left side of the lot, driverless. Gibbs punched open his glove box and extracted the small Maglite he kept there. He remembered the details about Oliver's burial site and came up with a plot number: 1273. It would have to be located in a newer, modern part of the century-and-a-half year old cemetery, which meant it'd probably be in one of the outlying areas, away from the center of the graveyard. He eyed the six-foot wrought iron fence through the windshield. Noting the spiked railing tops, Gibbs grabbed his infrequently used but damn useful lock picking kit from the glove box, too. Then he exited his car, calmly walked over to the inner gate, efficiently picked its lock and stepped inside.

Figuring that Turner had parked as close to Oliver's grave as he could get, Gibbs headed toward the west side of the cemetery. As he got closer to the newest plots, he faintly heard a rhythmic thudding, carried across the night time distance. Gibbs narrowed his eyes and turned in the direction of the thudding. Turner stood in front of a headstone, bending over a shovel, adding a scoop of dirt to the small pile to his right. Two rolled up layers of grass occupied the space to the left of the headstone, like mini-bales of hay. Turner worked methodically, determinedly and systematically digging into the area in front of Oliver's newly-planted grave.

Realizing that he was exposed, Gibbs pulled back a few rows, and leaned against the side of a mausoleum. This let him keep Turner under observation while shielding himself from the man's sight. He was digging up Oliver's grave; that was obvious to Gibbs. Equally obvious, Turner wasn't going to stop any time soon. Unless Gibbs arrested him, for—what? Malicious intent? Digging up the ground in front of a grave? Why would any sane person do that? Still, malicious intent was a minor charge. Gibbs decided he really needed to see where this was heading. Shifting his position against the cold limestone of the mausoleum, Gibbs got comfortable. His stint as a sniper in Desert Storm had taught him patience and stillness. He applied both, watching and listening as Turner continued digging.

Almost two hours later, Turner's shoveling ceased. Gibbs straightened from his slouch against the mausoleum's wall and slowly started back towards Oliver's grave. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something else approaching from his right side. Gibbs whirled and saw the pale figure of a man walking towards him. The man wore the uniform of a Navy Ensign, his dress whites crisp and sharp. As he got closer, Gibbs could make out the multi-colored ribbons on the ghost's uniform including the Iraq combat one—and the wicked-looking knife in the ensign's right hand. Gibbs recalled that the last victim had been stabbed twenty-three times by a similar knife.

Instantly, Gibbs drew his gun and fired at the ensign, now just yards away. The bullet tore through the ensign's chest, and the figure flickered in and out of Gibbs' vision. It returned a few seconds later, intact and still menacing him. He re-aimed his weapon, but before Gibbs could fire again, a loud "boom!" rang out and the ensign disappeared in a wisp of white smoke.

George Turner, armed with a shotgun, stood in front of him. "C'mon," he said tersely. "We don't have much time." Turner strode back towards Oliver's grave, and Gibbs fell in behind. At the grave, Turner turned towards Gibbs and shoved the shotgun into his arms. "Take this," he ordered. "If Oliver shows up again, fire."

Gibbs silently took the shotgun and watched as Turner jumped down into the now almost six feet deep hole in front of Oliver's headstone. Gibbs stared as Turner bent over and fiddled with the top of the black coffin. Turner opened the lid, exposing the body of Ensign Oliver to the moonlight. He extracted a can of something from his coat pocket and began pouring white crystals over the body in the coffin.

He blinked, and suddenly there were two soldiers in the dug-out grave, one lying in the coffin, the other standing by it, knife-wielding arm raised to strike at Turner. Unhesitating, Gibbs snapped the shotgun into position and fired at the standing soldier, who again disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Turner looked sharply at Gibbs, and then proceeded to pour more crystals over the opened coffin. He slipped the can back into his pocket, and then glanced upwards at Gibbs. "Hand me the gasoline—it's in the bag at your feet."

Gibbs' gaze travelled downward, and he found the opened travel bag. He bent over and grabbed the container of gas, handing it down to Turner as instructed. He really should say something, but he couldn't figure out what, exactly, so he continued to obey.

Turner carefully but liberally poured gasoline over the ensign's body, and Gibbs caught a whiff of mixed gasoline and decay as Turner then hoisted himself out of the hole. A lit match appeared in Turner's hand, and he stared almost mesmerized into the flame for a few seconds before dropping the match into the hole. "Rest in peace, ensign," he muttered, and then stepped backwards, yanking Gibbs back away from the hole, as a burst of flames whooshed upwards from the coffin.

Gibbs jerked out of Turner's grasp and eyed him warily. "What happened?"

Turner watched the still-flaming hole and spoke evenly. "We just put a spirit to rest."

"Oliver?" Gibbs asked, although he knew the answer.

Turner just stared pointedly at the freshly-minted headstone above the flaming grave: Ensign Fred T. Oliver 1979-2003.

Must've done a rush job for the military, Gibbs thought inanely as he, too, stared at the headstone. His gaze quickly returned to the still-burning grave.

"We'll let it burn itself out, and then fill it back up." Turner spoke in a normal tone of voice, like torching graves was a commonplace event.

"And then what? Business as usual?"

"Yes. I'll drive out of town and you'll never have to see me again. Your case'll remain unsolved, but don't worry, there won't be any more murders."

"And that's it? Corpse burned, case dismissed?"

Turner stared hard into Gibbs' eyes. "I didn't have you pegged as a glory hog or a perfectionist, needing a hundred percent solved cases rate. Am I wrong about that?"

"No, but… This ghost busting, it's a lot to take in all at one time."

"You've got a point," Turner conceded, wincing at the term ghost busting.

Gibbs set the safety on the rifle, and then handed it back to Turner. "Why did this work when my own gun didn't?" he asked.

"Shotgun's loaded with rock salt," Turner said, stooping to place the shotgun into his travel bag. "Salt is a purifier_—_it repels spirits."

"And you finished the job by burning Oliver's body?"

"Salting and burning the body," Turner corrected.

"So, Oliver's spirit went—?"

"I don't know where, for sure, and I don't care. Salting and burning the bones is like death for spirits, and that's good enough for me."

"Back at the bar, you said spirits see things in black and white. Kinda sounds like you do, too."

Turner laughed. "Actually, my world's pretty gray."

"Yeah, I thought so." Gibbs turned to meet Turner's eyes. "You don't need to worry about any trouble from me. I'll keep quiet about tonight. And, if you ever need my help, you've got my card, Buster."

"Buster?" Turner's eyebrows canted upward.

"Short for Ghostbuster. It fits you better than George Turner."

"It does at that." Turner took Gibbs' business card out of his pocket, flipped it over and wrote on the back. He gave the card back to Gibbs. "If you ever need to reach me again, that's my number. And the name's Winchester, John Winchester."

Gibbs took the business card back, knowing that Winchester had already memorized his number. "Who ya gonna call?" he chuckled lightly as Winchester picked up the shovel and started filling in Oliver's final resting place.

tbc

A/N: Hope you're enjoying the story so far. BTW, there really is a Dean Elementary School in Manassas, close to the Rosehill Cemetery. When I found that out, I just had to use it!


	3. Chapter 3 The List

_Buster. _Gibbs tipped his head back and took a long swallow of beer, then brought the bottle down and distractedly ran his thumb across the top. About a year and a half ago, he'd almost contacted Winchester. It was right after Kate diedand started haunting him. Kate Todd had been one of Gibbs' primary agents, a significant member of his team. Her spirit had wanted to know why she had to die, and she'd expected him to tell her. At the time,Gibbs had wondered if Kate was appearing to anyone else. But if one of their voluble medical examiner's patients had suddenly started talking back to Dr. Mallard, Ducky had wisely kept a stiff upper lip. No, it was open-minded Abby, their Goth forensic scientist who had mentioned that she'd seen Kate. Gibbs gathered that Kate had also been haunting other members of the team, too, although from what Abby had said, it sounded more like a lingering farewell than a true haunting. Fortunately, Gibbs had taken care of Kate's killer just before she had been quietly laid to rest in an Indiana cemetery. Gibbs had arranged a discreet surveillance of the cemetery for months afterwards, but nothing untoward had happened. Concluding that Kate really was at peace, Gibbs had called off the surveillance, grateful that he didn't have to enlist Winchester's help in banishing her spirit.

And now Winchester's son was in town, needing a favor. Gibbs raised the beer bottle to his lips and mulled over the best way to handle the situation.

SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS

"Ah, now that hits the spot." Dean took another bite out of his rapidly disappearing cheeseburger, and then placed it on the paper plate in front of him. He was seated at the motel room's table, in a comfortably cushioned mahogany side chair, with Sam across from him. Reaching for a French fry, he dipped it into the ketchup and munched contentedly. "Admit it, Sam, this tastes better than fried peas or any other gourmet glop the motel's room service would've made."

"I don't think the motel's chef—or any other chef—would consider fried peas to be gourmet food," Sam said mildly. "But, yeah, for diner food, it wasn't bad."

"Not bad?" Dean stuffed the last chunk of his cheeseburger in his mouth, and then pointed to Sam's empty plate. "You sure ate yours fast enough." When that failed to elicit a response from his younger brother, Dean continued, "Time for dessert. Where's my fudge?"

Sam reached down to the floor and lifted up a small white paper bag, placing it on the table. "Here…but it has a price tag."

Dean glanced sharply at Sam's face."What, they wouldn't take your credit card, so you had to pay cash? How much do I owe you?"

"Not that kind of price tag." Sam's tone was flat and Dean knew that something was definitely up.

"What, then? Spit it out, Sammy."

"You have to tell me what you did while I was gone."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't know what you're talking about, dude."

"You think I can't recognize a Dean Winchester diversionary tactic when I see one? You wanted me out of the room for awhile."

"I wanted some diner food, and you got it."

"No, the food wasn't your primary goal; it was a bonus."

"Sammy, I sent you out to get dinner, period. Since you can't be two places at once—unless you're a shapeshifter?—you weren't in the motel room while you were fetching dinner."

"Don't lie to me, Dean!" Sam erupted. "You did something stupid while I was gone, and I wanna know what."

"It wasn't stupid!" Dean defended hotly, because protecting Sam was never stupid in his book. Too late, he realized what he'd said.

"What did you do? Tell me!"

Dean heard the strain—the fear—in Sam's voice, and he relented. "I called someone, okay? I needed some information."

"Who? Bobby?"

"No."

"Ellen?"

"No."

"Ash?"

"No." Dean sensed that Sam would just keep throwing out other hunters' names. "It's not anyone you know, Sam." Certain that Sam would misinterpret that as some kind of slight, he added, "I called a friend of Dad's."

Dean watched as Sam flinched, and knew that they both recalled Dean's similar words from over two weeks ago. Dean had flipped his cell phone closed. "That was a friend of Dad's. He's got a job for us…" and Dean had laid out the jail house haunting. It wasn't one of their unqualified successes; Henriksen was now back on their trail, madder than ever, and Sam hadn't had a full night's sleep since their escape.

"Who?" Sam asked, puppy dog eyes turned towards Dean. Dean wondered how anyone whose eyes oozed such innocence could possibly be worried about turning evil or being incarcerated, but he knew Sam was. Just another day in the Winchester world. He remembered something Sam had said a few months back, after yet another hunt with a less than stellar ending_. _"…But you're just one person, Dean. And I needed to think that there was something else watching, too, you know? Some higher power. Some greater good."

Well. Dean scoffed at the whole "higher power" notion, but he could at least provide his kid brother some reassurance that they weren't completely alone in this. He rose from the table, stepped over to the desk, and grabbed a sheet of stationery and a pen. Returning to the table, he started writing as he spoke. "I should've given you this sooner, Sam. I—" _I didn't want to admit that I couldn't keep you safe just by myself. _He coughed. "When I was twenty-five and started hunting solo, Dad gave me this list of special contacts."

He added three new names and phone numbers to the page: Deputy Kathleen Hudak, Detective Diana Ballard, Mara Daniels, PD. Sam would hardly be surprised that they were all female. He finished writing, set the pen down and passed the paper across the table. "These are all people from the right side of the law who are willing to help us, if we need it." He watched as Sam read the list of high-ranking Marines and law enforcement officials. "Memorize that list and then burn it. Those people could lose their livelihoods or be tossed in jail if their association with us ever came to light—and they're still willing to help."

"There are good people in the world, Dean." Sam's eyes held a spark of renewed hope, Dean was glad to see.

"Speaking of burning, there's a burn cell phone in the weapons bag—for emergency use. If you ever need to contact anyone from that list, use that throwaway cell, and then get rid of it when you're through." Dean planned on destroying the current phone as soon as he finished his business with Gibbs. It was the only way he could make certain that there was no electronic paper trail connecting the Fed with him, and the least he could do in return for Gibbs' help.

Sam glanced up from the list. "You ever had to use this, before?"

"Once." Dean's voice was flat, but he knew Sam heard the unspoken 'drop it' behind the word. Sam didn't need to know about that past incident; it was all water under the bridge.

Sam bit his lip. "Who'd you contact this time?"

Dean ignored Sam's question. "You were right, Sammy. Back in Arkansas, Henriksen caught me off guard, moved way faster than I expected. But you can relax; that won't happen again." He met Sam's eyes squarely. "I called an NCIS dude named Agent Gibbs, asked him to get a copy of Henriksen's file on us. That bastard won't catch us by surprise again." It was one of Dad's oldest rules: know your enemy, which Dean now stretched to include: know what your enemy knows about you.

"An NCIS agent? Dean, he's a Fed!"

"Hey, Gibbs' name is on that list for a reason, Sam. Dad wouldn't steer us wrong. You worry too much, bro." Dean had had as much serious conversation as he could stand. He glanced at Sam and smiled, rubbing his hands in anticipation. "Now, where's my fudge?"

Sam handed the white bag across the table to Dean, who reached in and pulled out a big chunk of fudge. He stared at it, appalled. "Sam, what is this? It's pink!"

Sam quickly plucked the piece from Dean's fingers_._ "It's not pink!" he denied. "It's strawberry crème fudge."

Dean shook his head and stuck his hand back in the bag, pulling out a normal-looking piece of fudge. "That's better," he sighed. "See—" he displayed the chocolaty brown piece, liberally sprinkled with walnuts, "—this is fudge, not that Princess Barbie stuff you've got, Samantha."

"Dean—" Sam growled, not sounding very lady-like at all.

"And you better've gotten me more than one piece." Dean looked into the bag and pulled out a light tan chunk. "Ugh, this must be yours, too."

Sam snatched the second portion of fudge. "This is maple fudge, Dean. And you don't know what you're missing." He took a bite out of the quarter pound block. "It happens to be delicious. You should try some."

"To each his own," Dean muttered, pulling the last square of plain chocolate fudge from the bag. He eyed Sam's two chunks. There was no way he would try the pink stuff, but Sam looked like he was really enjoying his dessert. "Hey, can I have a bite of that maple fudge?"

SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS

Friday morning, Gibbs was seated at his desk, facing Agent McGee's cubicle. He was working through a stack of files, hiding a grimace at the routine paperwork and waiting for the younger man to head for the elevator. He considered manufacturing a reason to send McGee down to the lab, but he really shouldn't have to. McGee and Abby conferred daily, and his two computer experts' little talks frequently paid off with solved problems and closed cases. Currently, McGee was parked in front of his PC diligently typing.

Just before ten, McGee rose from his desk and headed down the aisle to the interior elevator. Gibbs quietly rose to his feet and followed him, slipping into the elevator seconds before the door closed. McGee smiled at him and pressed the basement button. The elevator started its descent, then Gibbs hit the "Emergency Stop" toggle and their downward movement halted, the lights instantly dimming.

McGee turned to face him. His newest agent was nervous, hand reaching to adjust a non-existent tie under his tan sports jacket. Obviously, McGee had heard about Gibbs' elevator conferences and was wondering why he was being called on the carpet.

"I wanted to talk to you, in private_," _Gibbs started.

"Yes, sir."

"This is an exercise in stealth and information gathering, for your ears only, McGee. I don't want you discussing this with anyone else—not even Abby."

"I won't, boss."

"Good. I want you to access a file Special Agent Victor Henriksen is keeping. That's FBI Agent Henriksen: H-e-n-r-i-k-s-e-n. The file's on two brothers: Sam and Dean Winchester. I want a hardcopy on my desk by the end of today. Got that?"

"Yes." McGee didn't seem fazed at all by Gibbs' request that he hack into a sister agency's computer system, but then it wasn't the first time that he'd heard such a request.

"The emphasis in this exercise is on stealth. I'll consider this a successful operation if neither of us hears about it, or talks about it again. Now, do you have any questions?"

"No, boss."

Gibbs almost let it go there, but then he remembered McGee's second occupation. "This is not fodder for one of your stories, either. I don't want to see this showing up in one of Gemcity's future books. Are we clear?"

"No, sir." At Gibbs' raised eyebrows, McGee tacked on, "I mean, yes, boss. It won't show up in any book, sir."

"Good." Gibbs toggled the "Emergency Stop" button off, and the elevator continued its interrupted trip to the basement. McGee left, heading for Abby's lab, and Gibbs walked down the corridor towards Autopsy, sure that Ducky would start pontificating about some topic as soon as he entered the room. That would give Gibbs plenty of time to come up with a reason for visiting the medical examiner.

tbc

A/N: Hope you're still reading and enjoying the ride. Got to admit, the fudge scene is my favorite in the whole story;-)


	4. Chapter 4 TexMex To Go

Federal Express

by Swellison

Gibbs sat behind his desk, watching as McGee logged off his PC and stepped away from his own desk. It was barely two minutes past five Friday evening and already the entire floor was deserted, the place as lifeless as a morgue.

"Night, boss," McGee said in passing. "Have a nice weekend."

"You, too."

"Oh, we will," a new voice said enthusiastically and Abby Sciuto walked briskly down the aisle in her stacked heels. Her slinky black t-shirt with a pink rhinestone-outlined skull and crossbones on it matched the exposed pink-lined pleats of her leather mini-skirt as she approached. She wrapped a hand around McGee's arm. "We're gonna see my friend's band, Brainz Afire, play at the Black Door Club. It's a great group! They play heavy metal-techno-punk—you'd love it, Gibbs. Why don't you join us? There are plenty of tickets still available."

She paused to take a breath and Gibbs answered. "Sorry, Abs, I'm busy tonight. But I'm sure you two will enjoy yourselves."

"One of these days, I'm going to succeed in dragging you to a concert, Gibbs," Abby mock-threatened, and then grinned, dark pigtails bouncing. "And you'll even have fun, wait and see." She turned her attention to the younger agent, tsking. "You can't go looking like that, Timmy. C'mon, let's go." They headed for the elevator to the parking garage. "I've got something in the hearse that'll suit you just fine."

"I thought I was driving," Gibbs heard McGee's protest as the couple walked away.

He waited until he heard the elevator doors close, and then rummaged around his desktop. Not finding what he was looking for, he frowned and then opened the middle desk drawer. Spotting an unmarked manila file folder, he pulled it out, nodding his approval. The first thing he noticed inside the file was a pair of mug shots, close-ups with the identifying placard removed. He scanned the paper underneath and learned that the pictures were from the Green River County Detention Center in Arkansas. He raised his eyes, took in the date—less than a fortnight ago—and then thoughtfully perused the rest of the copied file.

SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS-SN-NCIS

"Pull over here." Dean indicated the empty space along the street, and Sam obligingly slid into the curbside parking space.

Sam put the Impala in park and turned to face Dean. "I still don't see why I can't come with you."

"Sammy." Dean sighed. "Look, Dad trusts Gibbs and I'm pretty sure I do, too. But, we need a Plan B if I'm wrong. I need someone dumb and crazy enough to snatch me back from under the Fed's nose—and that's you, little brother."

"You're pretty sure you trust Gibbs?" Sam echoed, skeptically.

"Really pretty sure. Now, circle around the block and then go park in that lot on Jermantown, like we talked about. It's across the street from the taco place, so you should be able to keep an eye on things." Dean opened the passenger door and stepped out. He started walking down the sidewalk, relaxing when he heard the rumble of the Impala as Sam pulled back into the street and drove past him.

Dean walked briskly down Rust Road, the closest residential street to Tippy's Taco House, about three blocks removed from the intersection with Lee Highway. He stepped up to the busy intersection and pushed the button to trigger the pedestrian walk sign. After several seconds the light changed, and he crossed the street, and then turned into the strip center parking lot in front of the Taco House.

Dean entered the restaurant and quickly surveyed the interior. The dining area was one large seat-yourself room, with an ordering bar along the far wall. The place was about a quarter full, and even as he surveyed the room, two couples entered behind him. His eyes flicked to the table with the best view of the entrance. It was occupied by a middle-aged man wearing a long-sleeved USMC tee-shirt. Gibbs, he was certain.

Walking toward the table, Dean halted by the empty chair opposite Gibbs. He glanced at the mosaic table top, noting the _Washington Post _newspaper, a stylized cactus-shaped order holder spouting a card with the number 17, and two rolled-up napkins with silverware placed on top of it. His eyes swung up to Gibbs' face.

"So, you made it. Go and order before the lunch crowd gets here." Gibbs motioned behind him.

Dean found himself responding to Gibbs' tone, the familiar tone of a man in charge. Nodding, he walked over to the ordering counter_. _A lady with two kids was in front of him, giving him plenty of time to study the menu. Dean ordered a combination dinner for himself and a Senora dinner for Sam—he just couldn't resist the name, besides it was food that Sam would eat: a burrito and two chicken enchiladas, rice and beans. He made the order to go, collected his change and a number, and then returned to Gibbs' table.

While he was gone, Gibbs' food had arrived and the older man had changed seats, leaving the one with the bird's eye view of the room and the door for Dean. Dean slipped his number 24 in the cactus order holder and sat down. In addition to Gibbs' chimichanga, a bowl of tortilla chips and a smaller bowl of hot sauce now graced the table. Sam would've been worried about leaving DNA traces, Dean thought as he reached for a tortilla chip. But Dean figured as long as he ate the top chips and didn't double-dip, he'd be eating all the evidence.

"Nice to meet you in person, Dean."

Dean hastily swallowed a mouthful of chips and snatched his hand back from the chip bowl, startled by the similarity to Henriksen's comment to him in Arkansas.

"Your dad mentioned you a few times, over the years," Gibbs said. "Said he was proud of you."

"He did?" And damn it all if Dean didn't sound like Sam had, when Jerry Panowski had told him Dad was proud of him, way back when they were investigating that airplane crash. Dean got himself back under control. "He mentioned you, too. Said you were the only Fed he ever hunted with."

A wry grin crossed Gibbs' face. "It wasn't by choice."

Dean really didn't want to go any further down memory lane. "So," he checked the surrounding tables, but no one seemed to be overly concerned with them, "did you get the file?"

Gibbs nodded, while chewing a bite of his chimichanga. "You a baseball fan?" he asked after swallowing.

Dean was familiar with all sports, as sports talk was a staple of bar room conversation. "Local team's the Washington Senators, right? I'm more interested in the Redskins, myself."

"The Senators won a close game last night. There's a good write-up in the paper. I've already read it, so you can take it with you."

"Thanks, I will."

A waiter approached their table, asking "Number 24?"

Dean nodded and the guy placed a white plastic bag on the tabletop and left.

A little awkwardly, Dean opened his mouth to explain to Gibbs.

"It's okay, son. I figured you'd get take-out. I know you've got other places to be."

"Thanks, sir. I really appreciate this—it'll help a lot."

"Let me know if you need anything else."

Dean nodded and rose to his feet. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and picked up the bag of food. "Bye, sir."

"Say 'hi' to your brother for me, and take care of yourselves, kid."

Eyes wide, Dean nodded numbly, thinking, _Damn he really is a lot like Dad—nothing gets past him._ Then he straightened, strode down the aisle and walked out of Tippy's Taco House. Once he hit the street, he cut through the parking lot and left, down Jermantown Road. After a minute or so, Dean heard a familiar rumbling, and Sam pulled in behind him.

Dean hopped in the passenger side and slammed the door, setting the bag of food on the floor.

"How'd it go?" Sam asked anxiously.

"No problems," Dean assured him. "I got it." He unfolded the newspaper and picked out the sports section.

"Where to now?"

"Well, we've gone about as far east as we can," Dean said as he slid a legal-sized manila envelope out between the pages of the sports section. He undid the flap and took out a stack of copied pages. The top page was a Xerox of their mug shots.

"Guess Henriksen didn't like my 'blue steel' pose, either," Dean grumbled lightly. He glanced at some older shots of them from the bank in Milwaukee and then read Henriksen's notes. He bristled at their description as Satan-worshipping nutbag killers, deciding not to read that portion of the file out loud to Sam. He glanced at his brother. "You're driving, where do you want to go?"

"West," Sam said as he pulled back onto the road. "I surfed the net while I was waiting for you and I saw something that might be our thing."

"Something?" Dean prodded.

"A twenty year-old girl disappeared a couple of days ago, from her hometown in Joliet, Illinois. College kid, solid B-plus student, definitely not a runaway. I did some checking, and this isn't the first unexpected disappearance there. Over the past fifteen years, seven people, mostly young women, have gone missing in Joliet."

"If most of the victims are girls, it's not likely to be a woman in white."

"There are lots of other supernatural possibilities. It could be a ghoul or a ghost. The disappearances are widespread—not specific to any one road or area. It could even be the work of a djinn."

"A djinn? Trust you to go for the exotic," Dean teased. "Okay, lunch first, and then we head for Illinois."

The End

A/N Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this meeting of the two fandoms. Comments or suggestions are greatly appreciated. I am a mondo Supernatural fan, so I hope it doesn't feel like the NCIS team got short shrift, due to crossover tilt. Tippy's Taco House is a real restaurant, although when I lived in the DC area, the only one I knew about was in Silver Springs, MD. Awesome Tex-Mex.


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